


My Dear Ghost

by CatelynMay, zaboraviti



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Dark Vicbourne Fest 2018, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Soulmates, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-09 19:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatelynMay/pseuds/CatelynMay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaboraviti/pseuds/zaboraviti
Summary: Nervous, Victoria clutched the handle of the small carpetbag so tightly as though she feared it might fly away with all her modest possessions. She had to spend a few days in the company of the Ashers, who were the new owners of Brocket Hall in Hertfordshire, successfully complete the job, and forget about poverty and odd side jobs for the next few months.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatelynMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatelynMay/gifts).
  * A translation of [My Dear Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/428663) by Catelyn M. 



> written a year ago (the first chapter was actually posted on Halloween Eve) and translated for the [Dark Vicbourne Fest](https://www.facebook.com/groups/403553326682914/post_tags/?post_tag_id=690579754646935&ref=rhc_tag) on the Facebook group [For the love of Vicbourne](https://www.facebook.com/groups/403553326682914/). i wouldn’t say it’s particularly dark but hey, it does have a ghost both in the title and in the plot, so it qualifies! (it’s actually Halloween and Christmas wrapped in one.)
> 
> the fanfic was inspired by _The Canterville Ghost_ — you know the one, Oscar Wilde, disrespectful Americans, bloodstains, clanking chains and a pure kind heart and all. but since it’s Vicbourne, i can’t help being reminded of _The Ghost and Mrs. Muir_ with Gene Tierney, an old (1947) classic. it’s about a young widow who takes her daughter and moves from London and the overbearing relations of her late husband to a seaside village, where she rents a cottage haunted by the ghost of its former owner.
> 
> Happy Halloween, my lovelies! i hope you will enjoy this story and the beautiful artwork (credit to the ever talented author herself as always, and to Lady Disdain in chapter 2). and if you haven’t joined said Facebook group yet, you should — there’s a lot of great stuff going on there this Halloween.

 

[© Catelyn May](https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100016771998221)

 

“This way, miss,” the confident female voice with a prominent accent distracted Victoria from her thoughts.

Frau Lehzen, as the housekeeper of the estate had introduced herself when she picked her up at Hatfield Station, was the embodiment of German reserve and pedantry. Victoria knew at once that she was the all-seeing eye of this house — nothing would go unnoticed by this woman.

Standing in front of the impressive front door of the old mansion that was decorated with a Christmas wreath, the young woman asked herself if she was ready for what she was supposed to do. The answer was affirmative: yes, yes, she was, it was colossal luck, her winning lottery ticket!

Nervous, Victoria clutched the handle of the small carpetbag so tightly as though she feared it might fly away with all her modest possessions. She had to spend a few days in the company of the Ashers, who were the new owners of Brocket Hall in Hertfordshire, successfully complete the job, and forget about poverty and odd side jobs for the next few months.

The war was long over — the year 1929 was just around the corner. And yet, although night Zeppelin raids were a thing of the past now, life was hardly happy and serene. The global economic depression, as the papers called it, was evident in every little thing. Prices skyrocketed, and strikes were a common occurrence. Victoria had a rough time after her grandmother had passed away and left her all alone. Many people lost their jobs, including office girls, and Victoria had been doorstepping the few still open offices since autumn, with no luck.

She swallowed hard and took a determined step across the threshold. If she only knew how high the passions running behind that door were!

“How did it even occur to you to invite this questionable character here, Charles?!” Amalia Asher exclaimed indignantly. “Don’t you care about my wellbeing at all?”

“You will see, darling, this is going to do us all a lot of good. We need to solve the problem that gives you these morning migraines, as soon as possible.”

“But what, what can this girl do? A shaman dance or a séance of exorcism? God Almighty, what have I done to deserve this?! Couldn’t we purchase a quiet respectable mansion in London?!” the new lady of the house lamented, wringing her hands.

“No, no exorcism! I bet none of your titled friends can boast of owning such luxury: an old English estate with a history complete with its own ghost! By the way, the latter cost me a small fortune, and I have no intention of getting rid of it.”

Mrs. Asher jerked her shoulders nervously.

“Thank you, I have had more than a fair share of this so-called luxury. Susan found two gray hairs on my head yesterday!” she glowered at him and both turned without finishing this overwrought exchange because a thin pale girl of no more than eighteen, judging by the look of her, entered the drawing room.

“Miss Victoria Coin,” the butler announced primly.

“Oh, finally! We have been waiting for you!” Charles Asher exclaimed enthusiastically and offered their guest an armchair upholstered with cream-colored silk fabric. He and his wife sat down across her, looking over the girl’s worn but neat plaid dress adorned with a plain white collar and her slender fingers clasped around a square parcel.

“How was your journey, Miss Coin?” Charles dragged on his cigar.

“It was nice, thank you, sir, very kind of you to send a car for me,” the guest answered demurely.

“Don’t mention it. But pray tell me, what is it you have there?” he stared at the object in Victoria’s hands again, puffing out a ring of smoke.

“This is a special board for séances,” Victoria explained simply as though it was the most common thing in the world.

“How incredible! And you use it to contact ghosts, don’t you?” Asher scoffed.

“Ghosts can be very… unforthcoming, but I do manage to get them to talk,” she forced a smile, trying to sound casual.

“Ah yes! I get it, it’s a sort of a telegraph for ghosts!” Asher laughed loudly at his own clumsy joke.

“What is the exact nature of your problem, Mr. Asher?” the girl said straightforwardly. “I thought you had something more serious to discuss.”

“Ah. Of course. Time is money as they say. You are not without business acumen, young lady!”

He paused, collecting his thoughts.

“You see, I acquired Brocket Hall a short while ago, and it was quite a steal. At first, I was surprised to find a clause in the agreement saying that the house is sold with a real ghost. You can imagine my reaction! But then I was told that ghosts in old mansions were a rare treasure, so I bought into these fairy tales and shelled out a few thousand dollars extra. However, instead of a regular, humble, harmless spirit that would just appear in the windows and blow out the candles from time to time, I got a real scourge of God! There is sighing and morning in the halls, portraits fall from the walls in the middle of dinner parties, and brandy disappears from my study once I have uncorked the bottle! Not to mention the irreparably ruined, bent golf clubs! And that ugly bloodstain on the carpet that keeps coming back no matter what powder the housekeeper uses to clean it.”

“Erm, sorry to interrupt you, what bloodstain?”

“You forgot to mention, Charles, that our dear ghost, according to the rumor, was a notorious murderer and libertine while he was alive. Christ! Had I known this before, I would have never set foot in this cursed place!” Mrs. Asher joined in, unable to stay quiet any longer.

“Hold your fire, honey, I am a businessman and I only accept constructive solutions. We will make our ghost behave as befits a decent spirit. To get rid of something so exotic would be unforgiveable folly, wastefulness at the very least.”

“What have you come up with now?!” Mrs. Asher asked worriedly.

“It’s so brilliantly simple! I am going to make a deal with our ghost! And Miss medium here will be our middleman!” Asher said triumphantly. This was how he usually announced the upcoming purchase of yet another new company.

“A deal with a ghost?! It’s impossible, sir! The ghost world is too delicate, it isn’t easy to talk to them, let alone make arrangements with them!” Victoria exclaimed in bewilderment, meeting the glare of a person whose decisions were not to be questioned.

“But that’s really _your_ problem, isn’t it, Miss Coin?” he said. “You will have to explain to the ghost that it has to respect its owners and ask it what it would take for it to behave, and I will propose my own terms. Easy as pie. Trust me, Charles Asher knows how to do business!”

“Well, I suppose I could try. I hope the ghost will be amenable,” Victoria said quietly, realizing that any argument she could offer would be useless.

“Very good, so we have understood each other! Frau Lehzen will take you to your room now. We should try to have a séance tonight. What do you think?”

“Certainly, Mr. Asher. Séance it is,” Victoria answered without thinking.

 

***

Strangled sobs echoed in the quiet of the library. Here she could finally let the tears flow. She had tried in vain for an hour to summon the malevolent ghost — the Ashers must have thought she was such a useless idiot! Why couldn’t she just pretend, like many pseudo mediums did? Just roll your eyes, imitate a trance and babble some nonsense!

She had always been special, for as long as she could remember. Too pensive, too quiet at times, but capable of standing up for herself in the moment of real danger better than any street urchin. Sometimes, tending to her bruises and grazes after another skirmish at school, wiping bitter tears from her face, her grandmother would say that she had to keep her gift a secret and try to act as everyone else. But Victoria couldn’t help drawing in the margins of all her notebooks and textbooks, filling them with sketches of odd, frightening apparitions. They were uninvited guests that stormed into her head, making her talk to them.

She occasionally managed to chase them away but, more often than not, she had to put up with another brazen ghost who wanted a Mary to stop seeing an Alfred or tried to urge living relations not to fight over the inheritance. It complicated the life of the frail little girl who wasn’t used to disguising her thoughts, to lying and pretending. When asked if she was talking to herself, she always answered, in a straightforward businesslike manner and without hesitation, that she was talking to a lady or a gentleman whom no one else could see. No wonder that her schoolmates thought she was crazy, and she was often ambushed by a gang of them teasing and insulting her on her way back home from school. Soon Victoria had to learn how to fight. At that she exceled, so they left her alone. She became so adept at playing a studious pupil in the last two school years that people stopped giving her dirty looks, although she never made friends or even good acquaintances among the living.

However, it was her gift of communicating with the afterworld that helped her make ends meet. There was no lack of those wishing to participate in a real séance, but not everyone could afford paying for it. Often she settled for payment in groceries or just simple gratitude from an inconsolable widow longing to hear from her beloved late husband, so the Ashers’ invitation was truly a blessing.

And tomorrow she would be thrown out into the street without a penny in her pocket! Victoria thanked heaven that it hadn’t happened in the dead of night. Her hosts patiently accepted her promise to summon the ghost on the following evening.

She might have more luck if she saw the portrait of the former owner of Brocket Hall. But after Mrs. Asher had fainted a couple of times seeing a portrait wink at her, all paintings were banished to the basement.

“There are no ghosts here, just wild draughts!” Victoria cried out desperately.

The lamp on the table beside her armchair suddenly flickered and went out. The soft light of the full moon from the window was flowing into the library. Victoria sat up, straining her ears.

“Unfortunately, ma’am, you are mistaken…” said a quiet deep voice very close to her.

Victoria glanced at the window, at the ghostlike moon glade running across the floor, and suddenly saw the figure of a tall middle-aged man sitting on the window sill in a long shapeless garment that resembled the ancient Greek toga. His face in the dim moonlight resembled that of a marble statue chiseled by a skillful master: high cheekbones, classical straight nose, beautifully shaped lips and eyes overflowing with extraordinary sadness.

“So you are the Ghost?” she asked.

“If it pleases you to call me so, ma’am. And if I may… I did not wish to cause your tears.”

“It pleases me that you have come to talk to me. See, I am not crying anymore. Please tell me how I may address you.”

“Oh, I must apologize, I seem to have forgotten my manners over the half a century that has flown by since the last time I had a need for them. William Lamb, the second Viscount Melbourne, at your service, ma’am.”

“Victoria Coin, medium,” she introduced herself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Victoria. The name suits you… The resemblance is truly striking…” he said, so quietly that Victoria did not make out the last sentence.

“The pleasure is all mine, Sir Melbourne.”

“To tell you the truth, I thought you were pulling the wool over these people’s eyes when I saw the spectacle you put on in the drawing room.”

“It wasn’t a spectacle, it was a séance. Spirits are usually quite willing to communicate with the world of the living through the Ouija board.”

“This Ouija of yours must be either a consummate idiot or a charlatan. You obviously can hear me without any boards.”

“I can see you just as well.”

The ghost’s face turned even paler. Muttering apologies, he vanished into the moonlight.

“Your lordship! Sir Melbourne!” she called, wondering what she had done to drive away her ghostly companion.

“I apologize, I was not prepared for this,” said his voice from nowhere.

“You don’t want me to see you? I don’t mind, but could we continue our conversation?”

“I have no objection to that, ma’am.”

“May I ask you something then?”

“I am all ears.”

“I was told yesterday that there is an indelible bloodstain on the carpet in the drawing room…”

“And you want to ask me if it has been there since the day I killed my wife whom I had kept locked in her bedroom for years, don’t you?” the ghost deadpanned.

Victoria felt her blood turn to ice.

“No, sir, I mean, yes, I do… It would help me understand why you haunt this house, why you cannot find peace.”

“Well, if you do, I can tell you, Victoria, that this is utter nonsense! I might not have been a perfect husband, but Caro did not die by my hand and the bars on the windows in the bedroom were there solely for her safety. Unfortunately, she was mad.”

“So the stain--”

“Is just red ink. You have no idea how much of a challenge it has become to find red ink. For a long time, the horrible legend has been frightening away buyers well enough but this trick does not work on that scoundrel Asher for some reason.”

“But why did you nail the antlers to the wall above Asher’s portrait?”

“I couldn’t resist the temptation. I heard him once very eloquently expatiate on my scandalous reputation in the company of friends, and he had caught his own wife in the arms of a hot-blooded driver a couple of months before that.”

Victoria suppressed a chuckle.

“So that’s why Frau Lehzen goes to town herself and drives her mistress around! But still, sir, why don’t you try and make peace with the owners of Brocket Hall?”

She had barely finished saying that when she felt the air in the room get cold. Her words had clearly put the ghost in a foul mood.

“Owners!” he cried angrily. “My family has owned this place for centuries, and these vulgar nouveau riches have no right to call themselves its owners!”

Victoria thought that she had made an unforgivable mistake by enraging the ghost. She now could see why the séance had failed. But it was too late, and the quick-tempered ghost didn’t say another word. A gloomy heavy silence settled in the library.

 

***

Victoria returned to her bedroom, berating herself for the indiscretion. How could she forget that ghosts, even the most civil and gallant of them, could be very sensitive! Would the ghost of Brocket Hall ever want to talk to her again?

However, when she finally surrendered to fatigue and pulled the covers off the bed, she was surprised to see a few large ripe apples on the pillow. A fire was crackling cozily in the fireplace, where some thoughtful hand had put a few logs, and a delicate scent of flowers in the air reminded her of something painfully familiar and completely obscure at the same time. That night, for the first time in years, the Ashers and their servants didn’t jump at the noise of dishes shattering in the kitchen and loud sighs echoing through the rooms, and Frau Lehzen didn’t have to resort to nerve pills.


	2. Chapter 2

_[© Lady Disdain](http://ladydisdainblog.tumblr.com/) _

 

“It was very nice of you to leave a treat for me, Sir Ghost, I did not think ghosts could manipulate substance so easily. Then again, brandy, ink on the carpet, antlers… I suppose I am dealing with an extremely special case…” Victoria thought as she bit into the succulent flesh of an apple, turning another yellowed page of the fat _Britannica._

In a few early morning hours, she had rummaged through the Brocket Hall library in search for the information about the former owner of the estate. Now she knew the basic facts of the remarkable politician’s scandalous biography and the milestones of his career. She had read about him before, and she remembered a city far away, in Australia, named after him from geography lessons. Of course, when she was a schoolgirl, she hardly found the personality of one of Queen Victoria’s many prime ministers a fascinating research subject.

So why wouldn’t Viscount Melbourne’s ghost leave this old house? Perhaps memories were keeping him in this place, where he had spent the happiest and the most tragic years of his life. The enormous glasshouses that had once been his own Eden set up under his personal supervision still stood there intact, although they had fallen into complete disrepair…

But something at the back of her mind was telling Victoria that it wasn’t the only reason the restless spirit of Sir William Lamb still haunted Brocket Hall, giving heart attacks, nightmares and premature gray hairs to the masters and guests of the estate.

Through the kaleidoscope of flashing thoughts and conjectures, she sensed an invisible presence behind her back but she couldn’t will herself to turn. To her surprise, Victoria registered that the presence was not unpleasant or frightening. Instead, it made her feel like someone very familiar and dear was by her side. The feeling lingered, enveloping her like a warm blanket, and she wanted to enjoy its safety a little longer…

It stopped as suddenly as it had started. Victoria opened her eyes and realized that she had nodded off for a few minutes — an inevitable development, since she had spent a sleepless night, too excited, too impatient to find out the ghost’s story, and risen before dawn.

“Sir Melbourne? Are you here? Can we talk again?” she said, hoping to hear the gorgeous baritone of her incorporeal companion. Alas, all she felt was a feather-light kiss of a draft on her hand that clutched the hefty tome. Perhaps a window was left open somewhere. December was never friendly to the people of Hertfordshire.

“I know I was unforgivably tactless yesterday, pestering you with questions and unsolicited advice. I apologize…” she said into the air and paused, realizing that she was indeed talking to herself this time.

Suddenly she heard a dramatic coughing from a high back chair across the room and a minute later, she saw a lanky and very much living young man rising up from it.

So that’s why the ghost wouldn’t speak!

The stranger with an absurd fringe and a ridiculous little brush under his nose was boldly looking Victoria up and down, a sneer gleaming in his eyes.

“Don’t you know that it’s terribly impolite to eavesdrop? You should have made your presence known, sir!” she burst out, spluttering with outrage.

“But it was so riveting to listen to you as you called to the netherworld. Are we to expect incantations, frothing at the mouth or at least spine-chilling entranced gibberish?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were rehearsing your evening performance, weren’t you? If I am not mistaken, you have come here to mess with my parents’ heads! Well, you’re as good an actress as you’re a medium,” the young man smirked into his mustache again.

Her face burning red, Victoria sheepishly bat her eyes, feeling the pleasant weight of the _Britannica_ in her hands, trying to resist the urge to hit the gangly jackass with it.

“You are clearly shocked at my straightforwardness but I have no intention of dancing around liars and charlatans.”

“I am not--” was all she managed to say, already starting to raise the book.

She was interrupted by a careful knock at the door. The butler announced that the breakfast was served and Mr. Asher and Miss Coin were expected in the Morning Room.

 

***

Bertie Asher came to Brocket to spend Christmas with his family. He arrived home late at night from Cambridge. He had been studying medicine for the past year, although from his expression and the tone of voice in which he was answering his parents’ questions one might think he was a practicing physician with a degree.

The conversation was finally back on the burning topic. Charles Asher was in an excellent mood, and so was his wife, having had a good night’s sleep, which hadn’t happened often since they moved to Brocket Hall.

“I believe your presence has a soothing effect on our ghost, Miss Coin. Perhaps it has sensed your power. But when are you going to coax it into a dialogue?” he asked enthusiastically.

“I am very flattered that you think so but, unfortunately, I have no power over spirits, I only deliver their will to the living.”

She decided not to mention last night’s meeting with the spirit of Lord Melbourne — the conversation had led nowhere, she had just driven him away with her inappropriate remark.

“Nevertheless, it has been a quiet night. I think the séance tonight will be more successful,” Ahser said strongly, stressing that he hadn’t abandoned his wild idea of entering a deal with the ghost. Victoria had no doubt that Asher’s solicitor had already prepared the text of a legally binding document for that seminal transaction.

“For goodness sake, Father, would you please discuss this without me?” the younger Asher huffed, unable to take it any longer.

“But darling, we are so concerned about everything that has been happening in our estate, and we are trying to resolve the issue in the shortest time possible. I want to have a reception without worrying about this insolent ghost taking its head off in front of our guests!” Amalia tried to convince her son.

“Do you really still believe this ghost nonsense?! I thought it was just a nice advertising trick of a crafty real estate agent to make you open your wallet wider,” Bertie continued, turning to his father.

“This is far from nonsense, I assure you, son. Why do you think we have taken all paintings off the walls? Why I can’t tear down those horrible glasshouses and build a decent gold course in their place?! It’s all because of it — the Ghost of Brocket Hall! Men get to work and the most sinister things start happening, and everyone makes a run for it!”

“Father, this is nothing but superstitions, it's the locals and the servants who are trying to make you believe them, not to mention pseudo mediums — there are more of those than so-called ghosts these days.”

Victoria felt the rush of blood to her face.

“Superstitions, you say,” Asher senior said imperturbably. “But remember that electricity, for instance, was once considered devilry, and what do we see now? Think what you want but you have to attend the séance tonight. You will see what business approach means, even in a peculiar matter like this one. Besides, spiritualism is in fashion these days,” the patriarch concluded, downing a shot of fine brandy, the supply of which was rapidly evaporating.

“Have it your way, father,” Bertie said between his teeth, seeing that there was no point in arguing. “And now please excuse me!” he rushed from the table, discarding his napkin in irritation.

In the awkward silence, Victoria could hear her own heartbeat. The evening séance would now determine not only the peace and quiet of Brocket’s owners but also Charles Asher’s authority in the eyes of his son.

 

***

The old park was bathed in the crystal bliss of a winter slumber. The fresh snow covering the paths was virgin-white, and Victoria treaded softly lest the spell broke.

She breathed in the crisp air, but her nerves were refusing to settle. If she failed to summon the lord’s ghost this time, she would have to leave the estate in disgrace and forget about this kind of job offers forever. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and there is no better time for establishing a connection between the two worlds, as the border between them becomes quite thin, the veil of mysteries lifts, and we are touched by the ethereal thing we call magic.

Victoria reached the center of the park where paths diverged, when she suddenly saw the slightly blurred familiar ghostly figure hovering nearby. At first, she thought that it was just an optical illusion but the figure was unmistakable. This time, her otherworldly acquaintance’s outfit was completely in line with all sartorial canons of his historical period: a long emerald green overcoat, a purple waistcoat and a snow-white shirt.

Was the transformation meant for her eyes? The last time he had been in a bit of a disarray, his garment looked more like a sack than regular clothes, and he vanished bashfully when he realized she could see him. For some reason, Victoria found this fact awfully touching.

As she came closer, she noticed that the ghost stood with his head thrown back, studying something in the treetops. She spoke softly, afraid she might scare him off.

“Good day, Sir Melbourne! I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

The ghost looked like he had been pulled out of a trance.

“Oh, good day, ma’am. How nice to see you!” he turned to her and Victoria met his gaze. She could swear that his eyes were green, the delicate shade of the first leaves, breathtaking and magnetic, and she didn’t remember ever being so pleasantly affected by anyone from the afterworld. She even froze for a moment, having no idea how to continue the conversation.

“I would like to apologize again for being so tactless last night. Sometimes I speak before I think…”

“No need to apologize, Victoria, it was I who forgot my manners… So what do these so-called owners want from me?” he changed the subject abruptly as though he had read her mind.

“Oh yes. I couldn’t even begin to hope we might go back to that subject but since you have asked… Charles Ashes wishes to make a compromise agreement with you, to have some kind of truce.”

“Is he insane?!”

“I don’t think so, he looks quite sane to me.”

“No sane person would think of ghosts as business partners, Victoria. Such blatant disrespect! This must be the reason all my experiments with the bloodstain on the carpet, howling and groaning in the night and so on have no effect on him!”

“Yes, but perhaps it would give you an opportunity to press for your own demands, such as preserving and restoring the glasshouses. What do you think about it?”

“This is out of the question, I am not going to make any deals with the impudent fat cat! I have never done it while I was alive and I have no need to do it now. Please forgive my harshness.”

The ghost turned his eyes to the trees again, and Victoria realized she should change the topic unless she wanted this conversation to end the same way as the one in the library.

“May I ask whom or what you’re watching?”

“Oh, this is my lifelong passion. Rooks used to come to Brocket Hall all the time. Every year, they would rebuild their nests and hatch their nestlings… I enjoyed watching them for hours, how they cawed and fussed in the treetops like fierce little parliamentarians.”

“They will come back in spring, won’t they?”

“No, Victoria, there will be no rooks here anymore …”

“But why?”

“Brocket Hall is no place for them now. It is cursed,” said the ghost bitterly.

“Cursed! I don’t know what to say, Sir Melbourne… Perhaps I shouldn’t ask, but still…”

Victoria thought she felt her heart stop. She could only hope that he wouldn’t vanish into thin air again, pushed away by her audacity.

But in a few unbearably long minutes, she finally heard his sad raspy voice.

“Very well, I shall tell you. After all, I haven’t had an opportunity to do this in many years… If you have read about my life today, you must know that I had no greater joy at the ebb of my life than supporting and assisting our young queen. She was about the same age as you are now, you know. She enjoyed drawing and playing with her little spaniel, and she was so inquisitive and intelligent. Once, in this very park, she told me that her heart belonged to me… Oh, how I wished I could say to her that I could not imagine my life without being able to see her, to hear her youthful laughing voice, that there had been no room in my soul for anyone else for a very long time… And yet I had to turn my back on the love of my life for her own good…”

“Because she was the queen and you her prime minister?”

“Yes, but it was not the only reason I had to refuse her. I was twice her age, I had already lived my life, a life full of scandals, and I believed that I had no right to take advantage of a young girl’s infatuation. I thought her feelings for me would go away once she married and learned the other side of love.”

“You couldn’t have been cursed for this alone, could you? It was so noble of you!”

“No, Victoria, I used to think so too but the truth is that I made us both miserable. She had to marry a man who could not return the feelings she was capable of giving him, and I mured myself up in Brocket Hall to spend my last years in a meaningless, bleak existence. She continued to write to me, you know… for a long time, and each of her letters broke my heart a little more…” The ghost paused before adding, “You must never forget, Victoria, that true love is a great gift sent from above, and not every mortal is fortunate to receive it. We have no right to reject it — it is sacrilege tantamount to a most horrible crime. Now I know…”

“But the curse cannot be eternal! I believe that your repentance was supposed to free you!”

“Alas, the bonds of it shall never be broken.”

“But why?”

“Because for it to happen, I must know the sincere and unreserved love of another young pure heart…”

Victoria couldn’t utter another word. Only the dark silhouettes of the crowns of centuries-old trees reaching out for the cold sky became blurred, making her close her eyes for a moment.

“Don’t hide your eyes, miss, you have nothing to be ashamed of. I think I know what you are thinking. Who in their right mind would give their heart to a disembodied spirit? You are right. I am doomed, and it is only fair.”

 _Good Lord, when are you going to stop being such a sentimental fool and taking all these tragic stories to heart?! A medium should be an impassive intermediary between the living and the dead and never get involved!_ Victoria scolded herself but sorrow was still strangling her heart. She could feel the pain and bitterness and the loneliness that were perpetual companions of the hapless ghost of Brocket Hall.

When she finally shook off the haunting feeling, her ghostly interlocutor was gone.

Victoria lingered for a while, taking in the white quiet of the park, before she headed back to the house. Little did she know that Bertie Asher’s cold blue eyes had been watching her from the window for the last half hour.

 

***

Time rushed, unfailing, indivertible, as though pushing her to the impending doom. Victoria had never felt so nervous before a séance. It was usually relatively easy for her to make the contact and pass on the messages of the living to the dead. This time was different. Viscount Melbourne was a tough nut to crack, he wouldn’t engage in negotiations. But what could she do to impress this on the Ashers without making herself look like a fool again, especially in front of this mustached Cambridge star? Victoria shuddered with a squeamish grimace.

She refused to come down for lunch, saying she had to get ready for the evening séance. In fact, she was hungry but the thought of death by starvation paled in comparison with the prospect of spending an hour in the company of the very skeptical and openly hostile young man.

Victoria decided that the library was the perfect place to calm down and collect her thoughts before the challenging conversation with the owners of Brocket. Her belongings were packed into her small carpetbag; fortunately, she hadn’t taken the offered advance payment, so she could leave the house with clean conscience.

She did her best. Didn’t she? But this ghost… he would haunt this place for a long time to come, if that was indeed the curse. Did the young queen unknowingly condemn him to an eternity of torment?

“Perhaps. But even if it is so, this is none of your business,” Victoria told herself, settling in the armchair.

Suddenly, something on the graceful coffee table caught her eye. She went to it and pulled off the snow-white napkin. Oh yes, the cook would definitely get a dressing down from Frau Lehzen tonight for the disappearance of this tray full of sandwiches and pastry. The list of the ghost’s misdeeds was going to expand by another item!


	3. Chapter 3

 

[© Catelyn May](https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100016771998221)

 

Having appeased her hunger a little with the sandwiches that had miraculously found their way into the library, Victoria told herself that she had no choice but to complete her mission and hold this séance even knowing that it would be a failure.

“Sleep is the best medicine for anxious thoughts,” she decided, climbing upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor.

As she reached the half-lit landing, she suddenly felt a strong hand on her waist and froze. She turned her head to meet the bristling stare of sapphire blue eyes and unmistakably read in it the intentions of the brazen young man who had clearly had one too many at lunch.

Bertie Asher held her tight, searching her lips and pushing her to the half-open door of her bedroom.

Her hand flew up on instinct and left a bright pink mark of a hard slap across his face.

For a moment, the younger Asher let go of her to clutch at his injured cheek, and Victoria saw angry resolve in his gaze. He darted back to her and, before she knew it, she couldn’t move her arms. Bertie’s frail appearance was deceptive — he held her in a vicelike grip, his long arms ensnaring her like a spider’s web.

“You little crook! I am well familiar with the likes of you! Just be accommodating enough and I can pretend tonight that I believe you as well!”

“Let me go this instant! I’m going to scream!”

“And whom do you think it will harm more? Me or you?” Bertie sneered.

Victoria made another attempt to break free from his pincers, knowing too that even if a servant heard her screams and came, Bertie would make it look very bad for her. But all her floundering and kicking was in vain, and his lips unceremoniously reached for her neck…

“Get off!” she yelled but the sound seemed to have been absorbed by the endless walls of the old mansion.

Another sneer.

Panic-stricken, Victoria was almost completely immobilized by shock. She had never thought it was possible to corner her.

Somewhere close by, an ancient clock started chiming. The sound was so loud that Bertie got distracted for a moment and loosened his grip. In another beat, his face turned pale and long, contorting in an odd grimace of terror and bewilderment. He was staring straight ahead, his gaze fixed on one point further down the corridor, beads of cold sweat on his brow, barely breathing, hands shaking. He released Victoria completely, stumbling back to the staircase, mumbling indistinctly, “This can’t be-- This is im-- Good gracious, what is this--”

Victoria looked around. There was nothing or no one around; it seemed that Bertie was the only one who was seeing something inconceivably dreadful.

The clock struck again.

“Good God! I am going insane… This is some kind of delusion… No, it’s you, it’s all your doing!”

He lunged at Victoria but an invisible force hurled him back.

An enormous shabby head of a warthog — the new owner’s safari trophy — staggered and fell heavily from the wall right on the heir of Charlie Asher’s financial empire. Bertie yelled with pain, his screams echoing through the post-meal drowsy house. The clock struck mockingly a third time.

Victoria only vaguely remembered what followed: the servants scurrying around, Amalia Asher wailing, Bertie shrieking — he didn’t stop until the doctor arrived — her own weak attempts to answer  Charles Asher’s endless questions… It was a while until the shock eased off, allowing her to put her thoughts in order.

An hour later, the estate was sinking back into its usual prim drowsiness. Bertie got away with a fractured collarbone and was unable to speak for quite a while, staring at everyone with wild eyes.

The incident with his son only fastened the idea in Charlie Asher’s mind that the contract with the ghost should be negotiated as soon as possible. He stubbornly insisted on the séance and his family was forced to consent.

Winter twilight descended on Brocket Hall quickly and inexorably. It was the time of shadows and old legends lurking in its timeworn walls.

Magnificent Christmas garlands of holly and mistletoe adorned every nook of the house. A tremendous fluffy fir tree was towering in the Morning Room like the rightful hostess of the upcoming party. Asher spared no expenses to get a good decorator, intent on presenting Brocket Hall in all its resplendent glory to his friends and business partners.

Victoria came down to the drawing room when the clock struck nine and was stunned by its splendor. The Ashers were to gather here for the séance in an hour, so she still had time to try to get in the right mood.

The room was immersed in a soft half-light, the bright electric Christmas lights reflecting in the smooth mirror-like surface of the parquet, and it felt as though the fairytale rat king would jump out from under the otherworldly canopy of the fir branches and the toys would spring to life and start dancing. For the first time in years, Victoria felt like a little girl enraptured by the Christmas tree, a glimmer of an indescribable but imminent miracle waiting to happen warming her soul despite everything she had seen in her life.

“You cannot imagine how grateful I am to you…” she whispered under her breath. “I believe, I can feel it, if God and His angels exist, they won’t let such a noble, good soul suffer!”

A hot tear rolled down her cheek. Perhaps it was still the shock she had experienced earlier today.

Victoria felt the familiar light touch of a breeze on her cheek and the wet track left by the tear dried in a blink of an eye. She turned to see the ghost standing very close. His eyes were fixed on hers and the tenderness she saw in them made her heart skip a beat.

“You should not wallow in sorrow, ma’am — it’s a privilege of grim ghosts. Your smile must shine in spite of everything. I have no doubt that you have a most beautiful smile.”

Victoria realized that she was indeed smiling, and peace and warmth filled her heart.

“There, I was right,” the ghost couldn’t miss the transformation.

“Can I do anything for you, Sir Melbourne?” she asked.

“Your smile is more than enough, ma’am.”

To her own surprise, Victoria blushed as though it wasn’t an incorporeal spirit in front of her, as though she was talking to a living man, whose nobleness and old-fashioned gallantry dazzled her innocent heart.

“You know, on reflection, I have made a decision…”

“What decision?” she breathed excitedly.

“I have something to say to the Ashers, and I intend to do it tonight, with your help.”

For a moment, Victoria was speechless. Was she supposed to be happy or worried?

“You are helping me out again, Sir Melbourne! I’m sure you won’t regret your decision!”

“Who knows, Victoria, who knows…” he smiled with a corner of thin lips, mysterious and detached. “Can I give you a small present?” he asked suddenly.

Only then did Victoria notice that he was holding a small ancient volume with worn covers. The ghost opened it, showing the almost transparent flower saved by some caring hand in between the yellowed pages.

“This is the last Brocket Hall orchid. It was cut at my request on that fateful evening… But I never got the chance to send it to my little queen… Take it, Victoria, save it, and may it be a reminder that our life is too brief and love is lightful and eternal…”

Fascinated, she held out her hand and once the book was on her palm, the ghost dissolved into thin air, as though he had never been there.

 

***

The Ashers settled around the massive table, just as was agreed. By midnight, the house was completely dark. Victoria asked for the electric light to be turned off and candles to be lit in antique chandeliers.

Amalia Asher balled a handkerchief in her hands, sighing and huffing. Bertie pouted and refused to look up, the colorful bruise left by the hefty warthog head concealed by his thick fringe. The head of the family nonchalantly put the prepared contract in the center of the table, as if the deal he was planning to make was nothing out of the ordinary.

Victoria pulled the Ouija board towards herself and asked everyone to join hands. Tension filled the air. The new owners of Brocket Hall knew their supernatural housemate firsthand, but their every gesture and expression exuded nervousness caused by the subconscious fear of the unknown.

“We are summoning the spirit of William Lamb, the second Viscount Melbourne, peer of the United Kingdom,” Victoria said solemnly, observing the ceremony as required by the Book of Spirits.

There was no need to continue playing to the stands — she felt the familiar chill behind her back. The pointer on the board jerked and creeped to the top row of letters. Amalia gave out an involuntary shriek and grabbed her husband by the shoulder. Charlie Asher coughed loudly and blotted his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

“He is here, he is ready to speak,” Victoria stated the fact.

“Well, in that case, I suggest he read the terms of the contract,” Charlie Asher said, his tone too brisk to be genuine.

What followed would be forever remembered by the Ashers as the most dreadful nightmare of their lives. A terrible blizzard rose outside the windows, the wind howling like a lone beast, its echo booming in the chimneys. The flame of every single lit candle danced, throwing ominous trembling shadows on the walls. All mirrors in the drawing room cracked and shattered, bursting into tiny glass slivers that peppered the floor with myriads of glistening sparks.  

His gaze wild, his mouth gaping, Charlie Asher stared at the contract — there was one single word, in blood red, sprawling across the page: **NO**.

A moment later, the man clutched his head, wincing as though with pain, and heard a bloodcurdling whisper: “Would you like to challenge me to a duel? Swords or pistols?”

While Charlie Asher was trying to recover, unable to move from his spot, the enraged spirit switched to Mrs. Asher and used the same method to inquire after the whereabouts of his favorite rare figurines that depicted rather racy love scenes. Having received no answer from the lady, he sternly warned her that she shouldn’t sell anything she hadn’t purchased for this house personally.   

Bertie was not ignored either. The mocking ethereal voice wished him a speedy recovery and not so subtly suggested that he should be a gentleman around and with ladies — if he didn't want to part with something he might someday need, that is if he ever wised up. When it all finally stopped, the Ashers rose from the table on trembling legs.

The older man glared at Victoria, the indignation in his eyes eloquent enough to tell her everything that needed to be said. Charles Asher was not used to blowing deals. Never before had he felt so helpless and humiliated, and in the presence of his own son no less.

 

***

Victoria spent a sleepless last night in Brocket Hall. She managed to doze off only in the small hours of morning. In that brief restless sleep, she dreamed of a gallery in a palace illuminated by the soft flickering light of hundreds of candles. She looked around, settling into the unusual surroundings, and saw the familiar tall figure standing next to her. The ghost of Lord Melbourne was dressed in a glorious dark blue gold-embroidered uniform as though he was going to attend an audience with the Queen or one of her receptions.

“I am sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “I hope my little caper hasn’t frightened you. The Ashers have to understand that the traditions and the legacy of Brocket Hall are to be respected, even if they have enough money to reshape the whole world to their liking.”

“I understand and I don’t blame you. Despite everything, I’m glad I got to know you,” Victoria said shyly, thinking how strange it was to feel her cheeks flush — which he, of course, could not have missed — in a dream.

“For a lonely grim ghost such as yours truly, ma’am, this encounter is an incredible generous gift from God,” he said half in jest. “Everything must come to an end, both good and bad. And so it is time for us to say goodbye…” he added, his voice tinged with sadness again.

“Goodbye is such a dreadful word,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Let’s not say it then…” he whispered and she found him so very close as he leaned to her trembling parted lips.

When Victoria had imagined herself being kissed, she thought it would be exciting and pleasant but she had no idea how many more emotions and sensations a gentle and commanding touch of lips could bring. A strange bliss enveloped her body, swaying her mind and will, filling her soul with yet undefined but exuberant joy.

“This was your first kiss, ma’am, wasn’t it?” Melbourne asked, slowly pulling off, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek. Victoria blushed again under his all-knowing look and nodded, still spellbound by the sensation that for a few moments had made her forget where she was and whom she was with.

“I am happy and grateful that you have given it to me,” Melbourne smiled at his own thoughts and added, already disappearing into the mysterious mist that suddenly crept upon them both. “I shall always remember you, although it must be hard to believe that a disembodied spirit is capable of it. Be happy, Victoria! And if you meet your destiny, never give it up, no matter what trials life throws on you!”

She wanted to say something in return, to keep him at least for another brief moment, but the candles in the gallery suddenly went out and Victoria opened her eyes to complete darkness. It took her a while to tame her desperately pounding, throbbing heart and stop the sudden torrent of tears.

 

***

Fortunately, the morning of the Christmas Day was not as cold as the day before. After she woke up from her restless sleep, Victoria opened the small old book and was caught by surprise by the subtle exquisite scent of the orchid that had been dry for almost a century. Suddenly, she became aware of some uncertain transformation in the house. She could not explain it but she could swear that inhabitants of Brocket would never see its old owner in these halls again.

Only Lehzen was waiting for her in the foyer. She had been instructed to see the girl off the premises but Victoria was to get to the nearest station on her own — of course.

Victoria walked out of the gate and turned left. She had a several miles’ stroll along the picturesque Brocket Road ahead of her before she would reach Hatfield station.

Cozy curls of distant smoke wafted up from the chimneys in the village. Victoria turned to look at Brocket Hall one last time, thinking that she would probably never come back here again. The thought made her unbearably sad. Oh, how she longed to hear the warm raspy voice, to sense the subtle presence of her ghostly friend again, once more, just once… “Well, you have always lived more in the ghost world than in the real one. But couldn’t you at least fall for a man of flesh and blood!” Victoria grit her teeth, urging her mind to return to reality. Still, she did not regret anything that had happened to her in the past few days.

She kept walking along the road, clutching the wrapped Ouija board to her chest with one hand, carrying her small worn-out carpetbag in the other. Her thoughts were a disconnected tangled mess, her heart gripped by an odd sadness. It would take her some time to process everything and forget the impossible feeling that had come to her so suddenly for the first time in her life.

The rumble of an approaching car made her jump and pulled her out of the whirlwind of thoughts. A dandy car dove from around the corner, its black polished fenders glistening, swept past Victoria and pulled up to the curb.

When Victoria caught up with it, she noticed a shining steel figure of a bird with its wings spread on the fancy hood. The figure was really eye-catching. She knew nothing about cars but she was sure she had never seen such an ornament before. The door on the driver’s side opened and a deep hoarse voice asked: “Are you by any chance going to Hatfield, young lady? I could give you a lift.”

“No, thank you,” she said politely but coldly. She had no intention of getting into a strange man’s car, even if she risked getting into another blizzard.

“I hope you’ll change your mind. It’s still a long way to the nearest village and, please forgive my bluntness, your coat is no good for this weather at all.”

Victoria finally ventured to glance at the owner of the pleasant baritone. He had his hat pulled over his eyes but she still made out his face: middle-aged, eyes the warm shade of green, a neat mustache over thin beautifully shaped lips, classical profile. For a second, she thought…

“If you think I’m counting on a reward from you, ma’am, you couldn’t be more wrong. Your smile would be more than enough. I have no doubt that you have a most beautiful smile.”

With an ease that was surprising for his tall figure, the stranger got out of the car and took a step towards her, unable to look away from the sweet young face with snowflakes tangled in the long lashes and a shining joyful amazement in the eyes the color of forget-me-nots.

“There, I was right,” he added, noticing the dimples in her cheeks, and smiled a soft smile and all of a sudden, his eyes were no longer eyes of a stranger.

 

***

The Asher owned Brocket Hall only briefly. People said that they had moved to their London mansion almost immediately after the disastrous Christmas. Bertie quit medicine, began to study theology and became pious, hard set on building up his shattered faith, to annoy everyone with his long homilies on salvation. Charles Asher’s business in England kept failing, and he and his wife soon departed for the United States, leaving the estate in the care of his solicitor.

The long-awaited buyers appeared by the end of the following winter. A married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Lamb wished to move into the old house as soon as possible to be ready for the birth of their first child. The persistent rumors and horrible stories about the ghost of the man who had lived in the house many decades ago didn’t seem to bother them at all.

When snow began to melt under the warm smiles of the spring sun, the local villagers were quite surprised to see noisy black birds in the old park after many years of absence.

The new owners of the estate would come out hand in hand to stand in the shade of the great old trees, watching the merrily fussing rooks in the sprawling branches, and then to look at the first delicate blossoming orchid in the once abandoned glasshouses.

Life was awakening in every corner of Brocket Hall, and Victoria knew that it was a reminder of love and eternity, of mysteries hidden beyond our world, of forgiveness and hope, a reminder that no curse, however dreadful and strong, can withstand the power of a truly loving heart.


End file.
